Back to Titanic
by Lady Elena Dawson
Summary: When Emily Dawson's mother passes away, she's left to learn about the past she never knew about. But what she gets instead takes her back in time... And she witnesses, first-hand, her parents fall in love on the Ship of Dreams.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I wrote this four years ago at the same time I was writing _Beyond the Ocean. _Crazily enough, it was also before I knew about fan fiction - and to think I was writing it without even knowing what it was called! So if any of these themes seem familiar or already used in the Titanic fandom, excuse it as a coincidence. Enjoy this first chapter! It's kinda long, so good luck!**

* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own _Titanic _(1997).**

**_Back to Titanic_  
**

**_By Lady Elena Dawson_**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

My story is different from everyone else's. It brought me sorrow, pain, and curiosity. I never knew my father, and my mother never talked about him. All she ever told me was that he died before I was born. That's her story on him. But I believe there is much more that she hasn't told me…

My mother seemed in a daze when I talked about him. I saw in her eyes something more than just love. I noticed that her eyes flickered like a moving picture, each second that passed showing a different feeling that stabbed at her heart. It went in this exact order, in fact: grief, anger, happiness, love, disbelief, desperation, fear, and finally sadness. And this wasn't just lust or attraction, this was what I came to define as true love. The most romantic love story you could get and the most heartbreaking sadness you could get. I can read that all from her expression.

Life was strange in the way you remembered things. For when I was five-years old, I clearly remember asking my mother this exact question:

"Mommy, why are your feelings changing?"

And she said, "You seem to get that from your father."

She didn't elaborate. Somehow, someway, I just understood. I told myself that what she told me was that my father was really good at detecting her feelings, and how when she was scared he would try to comfort her right away. Her moods went from warmness, but then to sadness. Her emotions changed all the time. But they mostly altered when I talked about my father. And every single year since the day I was old enough to understand I got more and more curious about him. Who was he and how did he die? Did he know about me? What goes through her mind when I bring him up? It wasn't until I was ten that she told me some of it. But it wasn't enough to feed my hungry need for information.

"Mother, why won't you talk about Father?" I asked her one day.

"Oh, Emily, you ask me that all the time," she said as she sat on my bed.

"But you never tell me anything about him!" I protested. I remember I was getting ready for a school concert; I played the violin. I started struggling with my dress, and Mother came to help me.

"That's because those memories, Emmy, are painful," Mother told me.

I flipped my red, curly hair out of my face and looked at my mother through the mirror. Her green eyes watered a little.

"Oh Mother, why won't you tell me? Don't you think I'm old enough?" I asked her.

A lump formed in my throat as well as hers. "Oh, sweetie, it was such an awful time!" she finally burst out when she could hold it no longer.

My eyes widened in misconception. "Meeting Father was awful? Does this mean you never wanted me?" I rapidly said in shock.

"No, no, not at all! Don't take that wrong, Emily, sweetheart. Meeting your father was the most amazing and wonderful experience of my life." After that, she sighed. Her lips pursed in a smile, she indicated for me to sit down next to her.

"Why, Mother? Why was it so great?" I encouraged her to move on.

"I-I can't tell you why, but I can tell you a little bit about him," she stuttered. My face contorted in disappointment.

"Mother!"

"Emily, it's for your own good! One person involved in this story could hurt you, or even kill you! Believe me, sweetheart, this one man should be put in jail and never be let out." She said the last part in a whisper. A shiver went down my back. Who was she talking about? Was this "man" such a bad person that he would murder out of cold blood? She held my hand and looked at me with these pleading eyes, showing me that she didn't want to go on.

"Okay, Mother, you win," I told her. "Just tell me about him then."

A smile crept on her face and she whispered, "Thank you. I'll tell you, sweetheart, I promise you. But right now you're so young, so fragile. He can hurt you, and he will…"

My mind raced with questions about this man. But I kept my mouth shut and listened to my mother. I sat on her lap and she held me tight, almost suffocating me.

"Your father," she sighed, "was Jack Dawson…"

She had paused after saying his name, for, I realized, she never told anyone about him.

"Was he some rich man that stole your heart?" I asked her, but that was a bad idea. Her grip tightened on me, and I gasped. My breath was squeezed out of me. Her eyes filled with dread and anger.

"Mother?" I squeaked out.

"Oh my God, Emily, I'm sorry! Your grandmother told you too much," she said. I nodded, recalling Grandma's stories of high society life. In retrospect, I remember her saying that Mother always had her eyes on the upper-class men. But was my perception of my mother a lie?

"Mother, Grandma told me how you loved all these rich that even true?" I asked her.

Mother hesitated, eyes filling with tears, until she finally mutterd, "None of that is true."

I was absolutely dumbfounded; I felt shocked and hurt. "What do you mean? Why did Grandma tell me that, then?" I begged, pleading for answers now.

"What I mean is that he was of lower society. Third class."

I tried to take this all in. I wasn't stunned, and I wasn't disgusted that my father was a lower-class gentleman. I was actually happy that I knew _something_ about him.

I didn't say anything, which made Mother continue, "He was such a charming man. Comforting, caring… I never met anyone like him." looked into her emerald-green eyes, and I could see content and reflections pasted on them. "He stole my heart from a glance. It was sort of like love at first sight, you know what I mean?"

She held me closer and we both laughed. "He was a good artist. A _very_ good artist. Even for a third-class man with not a penny to his name."

She sighed and a question popped up in my mind. "Mother, why are you saying 'third class' like that? Was this on a ship?"

I knew what my mother was thinking because her eyes always changed color between blue and green. Right then, they were an icy blue color, meaning the memories she was reminiscing were hard to think about. In short, her eyes were always a bright green when she was in a good mood, but a light blue when she had a bad day or felt sadness.

I decided I shouldn't ask again. She cleared her throat and continued anyway. "Jack was such a different man. Your father, I mean."

I giggled and said, "It's okay to say his name. It might make you feel better."

She smiled. "Jack was full of life. He explored the world. I wished I was like him, just to head off in the horizon whenever I felt like it. Not knowing what would come each day…"

"Don't you already have that?" I contemplated our middle-class lifestyle. "Or most of it?"

"Yes, I do now. But back then I didn't."

Right at that moment, I remember now, my mother and I were entering the Renault waiting in front of our house. I thought I saw a difference in Mother's eyes when we entered, but maybe I was just seeing things.

We were quiet the whole ride. It wasn't until five minutes before I was going on the stage that I asked her, "But Mother, if you already have all that, then what made you not have it?"

"When you're older, sweetheart. When you're older I will tell you…"

"What could have possibly happened before me? You had me when you were seventeen. What could have possibly happened before that?" Anger had overtaken me. Didn't I have the right to know about my _existence_?

"A lot," she whispered. That's all she had time to say before I had to go out on the stage and perform. Tears filled her eyes, and for the first time I realized that I had hurt my mother in some way. That was the only concert where I didn't see her in the crowd.

…

After the concert, I asked her, "Did you like it?"

"Of course I did. You were wonderful, sweetie."

I knew that she had been crying, but I pretended I didn't notice.

"Mother, I didn't see you in the crowd."

"I was listening, though."

I knew she was lying.

She sniffled and I looked up at her. "Mother, I can't help asking. Who is this dreadful man you mentioned before?"

Her face went pale and her eyes went wide. "For you to know later."

Anger filled me again, so I pouted in the car.

"You'll be staying at your grandmother's," she said, breaking the silence.

"What?"

"Only for one night."

"Why?"

"I have some business to take care of. Personal, adult business."

I sighed. "Okay."

I knew something was wrong. I knew that Mother was taking a break off her acting job to spend time with me. But I didn't ask. I resisted the urge.

The car pulled up to Grandma's house, and I jumped out. Mother slowly followed behind me as I ran to hug my grandmother.

"Grandma!" I exclaimed. Ruth DeWitt Bukater could not have felt happier than to see me, her granddaughter. Her daughter, though, was a ghostly shade of white.

"Rose, are you okay?" her mother asked her in concern.

"I'm fine, Mother. Would you look after Emily for me? I have some business to take care of, and I'm afraid I can't bring her with me."

"Of course, dear."

Silence.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, Mother. I'm fine."

But I doubted she was. Mother never seemed this nervous or scared before. I wanted to run after her but resisted the urge to do so.

"You should get to bed, Emily," Grandma told me. I could also tell that she was worried.

When I was in my own, personal bedroom at Grandma's house, I finally decided to ask her the question that had been prodding at me all night. "Grandma, do you know anything about my father?"

Grandma Ruth seemed to pause, and it looked like she seemed disgusted instead of unhappy. As if her daughter having me with a man like him was a shameful thing, practically a scandal.

Finally, she spoke. "Jack Dawson? No! Why would I?" was her response.

"Just wondering," I whispered. "Good night."

"Good night, Emily."

…

I never knew what Mother did that night, but I did know that it terrified her. What I didn't know was that the outcome of what she did led to the tragic events to come.

I was waiting for my mother to pick me up, climbing a tree to pass the time. I loved climbing trees. "I probably get all this improper behavior from my father," I said to myself.

"Emily Rose Dawson, get down from there!" I heard Grandma yell from the kitchen.

"I'm coming down, Grandma!"

I slid down the tree and decided to just sit on the grass (on a blanket, of course) and draw the scenery. Mother was never the best artist, so I wondered where I got my talent from. I just figured out yesterday that I got it from my father. I was so into my work, I didn't notice the boy on the sidewalk walking past me.

He blocked the whole park across the street!

"Excuse me, sir, but may you please move? I am drawing something, if you must know."

The boy stopped and turned in my direction. My dark red curls reflected an orange color from the sunlight as it mixed with the blonde.

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry, miss," he said. He moved out of the way.

"Thank you."

He might have shimmied to the side, but that didn't mean he was completely out of my view. I raised an eyebrow.

"If you don't mind me asking, miss, but may I see that drawing?" he finally asked me.

"Of course."

He came over and sat next to me. "I'm Emily Rose Dawson," I greeted while putting out my hand to shake his.

"William Carter, pleased to meet you," he said while shaking my hand.

"William Carter? Are you familiar with the famous Carters that were on the _Titanic_?"

"Yes, of course. I am William Carter's nephew. All the men in the Carter family are mostly named William, so we don't really know who we are talking to anymore." I giggled in response.

"Are you, by any chance, familiar with the famous moving picture actress, Rose Dawson?" he asked me.

"Of course. She's my mother." He seemed stunned also, and I laughed again.

"You're her daughter? When I read her interviews in the paper, she always mentions highly of you."

"I know. I'm so proud of her, since I grew up without a father." I picked a daisy out of the ground, examining the smooth, green stem.

"You don't have a dad?"

"No. I never knew him. Mother said he died before I was born. She never tells me anything about him, though. Through prying I finally learned something yesterday," I said softly.

"Really?"

"Yes. I am not a liar, William."

"Please, call me Will."

"All right. And you may call me Em."

There was a pause. I saw a car coming down the street and rushed to my feet.

"There's my mom! I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Will. Bye!" I said in, literally, five seconds.

"Wait, you left your drawing!" he yelled.

"Oh!" I rushed back and picked it up.

"You're quite a fine artist," he complimented.

"Thanks. I got it from my father," I said with a smile. It was the first time I ever said something like that. _Like my father._

I ran back to the waiting car and jumped into the back seat, waving at William and my grandma. "Bye!" I yelled.

Mother seemed annoyed with me, clamping her hand on my arm. "Close the window please, sweetie, and don't yell." Her knuckles were a ghostly white.

"Are you okay?" I squeaked, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Yes, I'm fine. I just had a rough night," she grumbled.

…

Months passed, and soon I knew something was wrong with Mother. She rushed through the door, out of breath, holding a different part of her body every time—her hand, her arm, her cheek, her nose, and sometimes she put her hand on her thigh or leg.

"Mother, are you okay?" I asked her every day.

"I'm fine, sweetheart. Finish your homework and I'll make you a snack."

Every time she said something like that I believed it less and less. One day, though, I noticed a giant, newly formed bruise on her arm. I gasped.

"Mother, what happened?!" I exclaimed, my small hand grabbing ahold of her wrist.

She quickly covered the giant, purple bruise with her sleeve. I noticed another bruise on her neck, a small one on her cheek, and if you looked at her long, beautiful legs, you would have noticed a purple-blue bruise on the back.

I poked the small, discolored circle lightly on her cheek and she flinched. Her eyes turned a bluish-green. From normal to fear.

"I keep falling on the way back home. A crack in the sidewalk-" She tried to go with the first excuse that came into her mind, but I knew it was a lie right when the first word came out of her mouth.

"Mother!" I yelled, ignoring her statement. More quietly and pleadingly, I said, "Please tell me the truth."

I held her eyes in desperation. Mother stared back at me, licked her lips, and said, "I can't tell you."

Tears formed in both of our eyes. One from hurt and one from anger. I looked in her blue irises and saw that what she said was the truth.

I backed away from her. "I want the truth!" I yelled. "The _whole _truth! I want to know the truth about Father, I want to the know the truth about your past, and I want to know the truth of what is happening!"

I breathed harder and harder, into hyperventilation. My mother sat at the table, shocked. She took my hand and put her other hand on my back to steady me.

"You need some rest, sweetheart. Let me help you-"

"No!" I yelled, a little too aggressively. I pulled away from her and stared straight into her eyes. This time, I saw hurt staring back at me. "Not until I know the truth," I whispered. She didn't say anything and looked down. "I knew it," I grumbled.

I ran back up to my room, slamming and locking the door, and started sobbing into my pillow. This was so unfair! I should know everything about my parents, but I don't. I barely knew my own mother.

Mother didn't come to say good night, and she didn't even bother to come into my room. At dinner she just knocked on the door, said the tray was outside the door, and left. When I opened the door to retrieve the food, I heard sobbing from downstairs. My heart sank as I heard the cries. I slowly and sneakily went down the stairs, peaking at the living room where Mother was on the couch crying. She was looking at some newspapers she collected over the years and started ripping them apart, each tear more powerful than the one before.

One paper in particular, actually. She tore others, but not so emotionally as this one. I could tell she was upset. When she finished tattering up the newspaper she tore so expressively, she lay back on the couch and I could hear her sob, "Why did you leave me, Jack? Why couldn't you be here to stand next to me?"

Tears of guilt and sadness filled my eyes as I saw this. Father was so important to her. And that one newspaper might hold the answer…

Already a plan was being conceived in my head. Tomorrow, when Mother was at work, I would slowly paste the newspaper back together and see what it holds. All this time I had the answer at my fingertips!

The next day, once Mother said good-bye to me at my bedroom door, I rushed out of bed and downstairs. I grabbed the paste bottle and the medium-sized box that sat on the "Shelf of Memories," as Mother called it. And it sure held a lot of memories. Pictures of me as a baby, ore pictures of me growing up and at my different concerts, and Mother at her many moving-picture premieres. She had frames here that she didn't like to talk about, even though it looked like she was having a completely good time. Like the one of her at the Santa Monica Pier when I was a baby, though I wasn't in the picture. It was a picture of her riding a horse on the beach with a bright smile on her face. But when I looked closer, I saw a hint of gloom in them. I wondered why.

There was also many other things there. A locked box I never got into, a couple of written diaries by me or my mother, my baby teeth and first hair cut in two, small metal boxes with engravings like "Emily's First Hair Cut," and lastly, the box of newspapers Mother kept special for her acting career.

My hand shook as I opened the lid.

A sigh of relief came over me when I saw the ripped newspaper in the corner. I took the small box and paste upstairs so I could start.

I decided that I should only keep the torn newspaper and hope that Mother wouldn't reopen the box until I was done. I put the torn pieces gently in a plastic bag, tied it loosely, and hid it under my bed with the paste. I was too worried about my mother right now to figure out anything about my father. I mean, she came home with a new bruise every day. Was she dating some rich man she never told me about to marry into money to protect me? Or was she actually engaged to some man who beat her every day?

A shiver went down my spine.

Would she do that for me? She really did love me, and I had known that for as long as I could remember. But who can blame me for wanting to know about my father, even if it hurt her a little bit?

A trace of guilt lay inside me. Why did I have to bring up all those questions? Was all this pain she had my fault?

I can't blame myself. I don't even know who she is seeing or what she is doing. It can't be my fault...

Could it?

…

Mother came home with another bruise. Right on her temple. I didn't ask her, but I could tell it hurt. She would work so hard on cleaning the house, and when she even put her hand to her forehead she would cringe in pain. Not that she would show it.

"Mother, I'll do the dishes. Why don't you just lie down for a little bit?" I told her once I saw her face contort from the thudding pain for the fifth time. Just watching someone aching was awful.

"Thank you, sweetheart. Remind me to pay you" was all she said.

She headed upstairs, too tired to even look at me. I sighed. _I have to do something, _I thought to myself while doing dishes. _I can't let her get beat up like this._ But even though I planned to help her, I was too late.

Mother died the next week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Here's chapter two! Sorry if this story will ever be a little cheesy; I wrote it a long time ago. But, overall, I think the plot is interesting. This is a short chapter, but I promise the next one will be much longer!**

**And thanks to jackdawson-love for the reviews! This one's for you!**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

My plans to save Mother failed. In that one week she became ill from some unknown virus. The doctor—uncomfortably, may I add—mumbled something about poisoning, though he told me that he wasn't sure what kind.

"Food poisoning?" I guessed.

His eyes were unreadable. "No, this is much worst. She also seems to be beaten up badly. The bruises were hit deep," the doctor said. My eyes filled with tears. This was awful.

"Do you have an abusive father?" he asked me. Mother would be offended by this, except for the fact that she was knocked out by the medicines the doctor gave her.

"No, sir. My father died before I was born," I said. He nodded.

I heard the nervousness in his voice. He wasn't telling me something; whatever was wrong, he was keeping it away. Maybe he really _didn't _know what was wrong.

But I also saw hurt in his eyes. Why hadn't I done more to protect her?

"Do you know if your mother was dating anyone? Or engaged to anyone, perhaps?" the doctor continued.

"No. Nobody that I know of," I responded. He bobbed his head again. I watched his back retreat as he went to get some things, paperwork and medicines, so this gave me the chance to absorb reality.

Mother's room was dark, but that quickly changed when I opened the curtains. A soft, warm glow fell on my mother. God, she was so beautiful. My father was lucky.

Creamy white, soft skin, red ruby lips, dark auburn curls… Father was lucky enough to win all of that. But something was different. Her hair seemed to droop a little bit, like a flower lacking water. It also started to lose a little bit of its color. It went from a dark auburn to a lighter red color. Not much of a difference, but enough to catch my attention. Her face went from creamy white to ashen pale. Her red ruby lips morphed into a more pink color, and had seemed dry and parch.

"Oh, Mother!" I cried as I went to her bedside. If only I had cared!

I took her hand, and it was oddly cold and clammy. Her hand was always so soft and warm, something that always calmed me when it touched my skin. I could remember her soft hands on me when she gave me baths when I was a baby. Now they felt more dreadful than memorable. Large tears grew in my eyes.

I knew what was happening. I knew that this could be her last week or her last day. I knew she was dying.

"Mother?" I weakly whimpered. I wanted her to wake up so I could talk to her. Her eyes slowly opened.

"Emily," she whispered. Her eyes were a ghostly blue; my own watered more.

"Mommy!" I cried. I hadn't called her that since I was seven.

She had put her hand to my cheek to wipe away the tears. "Calm down, sweetheart. Calm down," she soothed.

I tried to, but I couldn't. I was weeping too hard. It took me about ten minutes unti my sobs turned into pathetic hiccups.

"Please live, Mother. Don't let go yet. Don't die today. Don't leave me now," I said.

Mother's eyes seemed lose their determination, and she looked up at the ceiling, as if she saw something. "Never let go," she whispered to herself.

Worried and confused bile rose in my throat. "Mother? Don't go crazy on me!" I yelled.

Her eyes closed, probably to regain a memory. "I promise I'll never let go, Jack. I promise…" Her voice disappeared in the distance. What was she saying? Her voice was so soft and tears had covered her cheeks.

Eventually, her eyes fluttered open again and looked at me. She smiled a cheerful grin as she brushed the back of her hand on my cheek.

"You have his eyes and irresistible smile," she told me. I couldn't help but let the corner of my lips jerk up and giggle.

"You even have his laugh."

I kept smiling at her. "Mother, if you go today, will you promise to tell Father I love him?" I asked her.

She nodded. "I promise."

Tears slid down my cheeks again.

"Promise me, Emily, that you'll never let go. Just like how I promised your father the same thing," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Never let go, sweetheart. Promise me now, before I go."

The last words stunned me and I started crying harder again.

Just to make me feel better, Mother said, "We'll see each other again. Just on the other side."

I looked at her. Her eyes alone were filled with tears of regret and happiness.

"Would you be alone?" I sniffled.

"Of course not. I'll have your father," she told me. I sniffled again.

"I promise I'll never let go, Mother," I said with as much strength as I had before I burst into tears again. "I promise I'll be strong."

Mother smiled at me. "See you on the other side," she whispered.

"See you on the other side, Mother. I'll always love you," I choked; I didn't want to talk anymore, but I didn't want to regret saying good-bye later.

She squeezed my hand. "I'll always love you, too." I sniffled and attempted to smile between my tears.

The doctor came in and broke our touching moment.

"Let her get some rest," he said. I nodded, though hesitantly. I didn't want to leave her, but it was for the best.

Mother's hand slid out of mine as I got up, and I looked behind me to see her face for the last time.

As I closed the door, I heard her say, "Did you hear that, Jack? I'll see you on the other side too. I already see that shooting star in the distance."

That night, Mother passed away. I was sad but content that she didn't have to suffer anymore. She would be with Father and they'll have lots of other children in heaven. Children better to her than I was.

Mother's funeral was the hardest day of my life. Grandma was there along with a bunch of other old friends, like Molly Brown.

Molly was sobbing heavily and I went over to comfort her.

"First him and now Rose. I think I've suffered enough deaths in my lifetime, even to the fifteen-hundred I didn't know," she said. This had left me speechless.

A lot of people who were mostly fans of Mother's acting career came up to me and apologized for what happened. I thanked them for caring, but that didn't fill the emptiness I now had in my heart.

A man I never met with sleek, black hair came up to me. "Sorry for your loss," he said, though it sounded forced.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Both I and this stranger were now looking at Mother in her coffin.

"You know, she played Ophelia in _Hamlet_. She had to act dead, just like this, but now it's real. It's all _too real_…," I told him without realizing I was speaking aloud.

He nodded. "I've seen all her films. I was a big fan, just like half of the people here. I let her in, and she was half of my heart," he said.

"No offense to you, sir, but you're just like all those other men that fall for her. She never bought it," I sighed. All the flowers I had to trim just so I could fit them in the vase…

"No offense taken."

A silence fell upon both of us, this unknown man and me.

"Well, I ought to get going," he sighed, straightening his composure. With that, he headed off with a glass of champagne in his hand, but once he caught a glimpse of Mother, he stopped.

He said to himself, "Jack was a lucky fellow indeed when she could have been all mine."

I stared at him until he disappeared out of sight. Did he know Mother? I didn't even answer my own question. My mind was focused completely on the woman who resembled a nightmarish dream, who lay lifeless in her coffin.

My eyes filled with tears again. I scanned the pictures my grandma organized onto a black poster. It was all pictures of me and my mother.

That's all Mother cared about was me. Nobody else, even though she had my grandmother. I knew she loved Molly, who somehow understood her pain as if she lived through it too. I also loved Molly because of her jolly laugh and smile. She was a very energetic woman.

I looked at that one picture of Mother riding the horse at the Santa Monica Pier when I was a baby.

"Okay, Emily," I said to myself. "Now it's time to figure out the mystery."

I gently took off the picture and slid it in my coat pocket. The rest of the pictures were useless for the secret I must reveal of my mother's past life.

Even though I prepared for this didn't mean I was going to start it at the moment. Right now I had my life to look after. My only choice was to stay at Grandmother's house, which I happily chose from fear of being alone.

Mother's death scarred me. I wasn't ready to be on my own. I was only ten at the time. Well, years passed, and now I'm fourteen. My younger self turned into a young adult who looked just like her mother but had her father's personality and talents.

So now I start my story in present time. And it all started one sunny afternoon after school in Santa Monica.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I started editing this chapter when I thought, _Eh, it could be worse. _So I hope you'll enjoy my childish writing and rejoice on how much I've improved! (No rant-y reviews, please!)**

* * *

**Chapter 3**

With no other siblings or relatives except my grandma, I was an only child. Every year I suffered the mention of my mother's death four years ago, since she was a famous moving picture actress. Teachers, students, and even strangers who recognize the stunning resemblance always asked and apologized for my loss. As a response, I always got misty-eyed. Mother was all I had for my whole childhood.

Few things I know about my father: His name was Jack Dawson, he was a talented artist, and he was poor, to put it simply. Besides those facts, my mother never told me much; she never even described what he looked like. She said I had his smile, his eyes, and his laugh. Whenever I stared at myself in the mirror I tried to put all my physical features from my father onto a more masculine body, but it never worked. I just look so much like my mother, and she doesn't even have a picture of him.

"What type of marriage is that?" I asked her one day when I was nine.

"You're too young to understand, Em. When you are older, everything will settle in your little head and you'll finally realize the answer to these persistent questions you keep asking," she had snapped at me (it was a rough day at the theater), which just made me more stressed and confused—and offended. My mind five years later still can't exactly figure out what she meant.

…

I was walking home from school alone, feeling the warm breeze of spring air throw back my red curls, taking the usual route I made every afternoon. Nothing was better than Santa Monica in the spring. I made a right turn to my grandmother's house and everything continued as normal. However, when I got home, a rather tall young man was sitting on the front lawn.

"What are you doing?" I asked him, slightly annoyed. His lanky body had ruined the impeccable spring image.

"Emily! I was waiting for you! Don't you remember me? William Carter?" he said, stumbling awkwardly as he got up.

_Oh, how can I forget him! _I laughed nervously. "William! Yes, I remember now. How have you been doing?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"No problem."

We took a short walk around the park, talking about each other's childhoods.

"Where have you been these past four years?" I asked him.

"Well, funny that you should mention that," he said. "My parents and I moved to Los Angeles, but started feeling homesick, so we moved back here. Odd, huh?"

I laughed my father's laugh.

"So we moved back here, but oddly I fell backwards when unloading the luggage down a tremendous amount of stairs."

I gasped. "What happened?" I asked in suspense.

"Got hit with a coma and some amnesia, but I remember everything now."

"How long were you out?"

"Two months, and then I had amnesia for seven."

"Oh my, that must have been awful!"

"It sure was."

I shook my head in sad, mocking matter. "You idiot, I know you're lying!" I exclaimed, pretending to pounce on him. He brushed me off and laughed, "All right, all right! We just moved here back from Los Angeles last week." Suddenly, a frown creased his face. "Then I remembered you and how your mother died, so I came to take a visit and say that I'm sorry about what happened."

I sighed and closed my eyes. "Thanks, Will. I get an apology every day. I just can't believe she's actually gone…"

I then got into a whole conversation about the mystery of my father.

"So I grew up without a dad. It was sad, but I was fine with it. I never knew him anyway. I always wondered if he was dead or if he left because he didn't want me…," I mentioned to him. He clearly remembered me but not the conversation we had four years ago. "But I just shrugged it off and continued with my life. Every day after my mother's death, I wondered who my father was—"

"Jack Dawson."

"I know, but I mean what he was like and how he looked. My mind got jumbled with stress, and then I got a feeling of why my mother had to leave me and why she couldn't just be here with me. But then I realized she's with Father, someone she hasn't seen in ten years and will clearly take care of her for me." I decided, with the strong emotions rising up as bile in my throat, to end the conversation with a positive note.

"Did you ever try finding information on your father?"

"No, not much. I still have all her stuff in my room, packed under my bed. From newspaper clippings to boxed away clothing, I have everything."

"That must be a big bed!"

I laughed. "No, not all of it is under there. Only the newspapers and this odd locked box I found that I didn't want my grandmother to find…"

I trailed off, thinking of the memory.

_I tried to hold in my tears as I packed away my things. Goodbye to the lovely house I grew up in. I was just finished taking down everything from the memory shelf, sniffling through pictures of Mother. _Why did she leave me at such a young age? I _need_ my mother! _I thought to myself. Not only that, but Mother was so young too. She was only seventeen when she had me. "Pick up the pace, Emily!" my grandmother said to me, sort of in a rush because tears started to fill her eyes. For not caring about my father, she cared about Mother much more. I got the feeling that Grandma doesn't like Father because of his class… Lower society, right? _

"_I'm almost done, Grandma," I said. I sniffled again and tried to hold back more tears but with no avail. _

_I picked up the locked box high up on the shelf, not even realizing that I never even tried to open it before. I sighed and just put it in the suitcase packed full of memories. _

_I then came upon my mother's favorite music box, one that played the melody to _"Come Josephine in my Flying Machine." _I opened it and listened to the melody play. I remembered that every night Mother would sing me to sleep with this song. I could just remember the lyrics…_

"_Come Josephine, in my flying machine and it's up she goes, up she goes…" I remembered Mother singing to me softly in her prettiest voice when I was younger. I never got tired of that, and she didn't seem to either. Just thinking of Mother made me close the box, but before I could I caught a glimpse of shiny silver. I opened it to find no other then Mother's favorite locket, one that had the initial R carved beautifully on the front. I carefully took it out of its box and gently rubbed some grime away. Not in bad shape, I must agree. _She hasn't worn this in years, _I thought. _Not since I was four or five.

_I opened the locket to reveal a picture of her when she was quite little, probably six or seven. On the other side was a picture of me when I was just a newborn. Mother's most precious memories. Just then, it dawned on me. Does Mother even have a picture of Father? My heart beat faster, and I felt like it would thump out of my chest. I slid the locket in the pocket attached to my dress and quickly finished packing up the items on the Shelf of Memories. Now every single possession except for furniture was packed away. _

"_Ready to go?" Grandma had a sad and happy look on her face. I only nodded. I looked around the foyer, the living room, and the kitchen. I closed my eyes, trying to burn these images into my memory. Grandma was waiting at the Renault in the front, smiling at me. She had to take out a handkerchief, though, and dab away some excess tears of sadness. _

"_Goodbye, memories," I whispered in the foyer. "I'll never forget you."_

"Hello? Snap out of it, Emily!" Will snapped his fingers in front of my face.

"Sorry. Flashback," I said.

"I thought you were going to faint or have a seizure or something!" Will exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes. "I was just having a flashback, that's all."

We walked a little further in silence, until I broke it by saying, "I have to go now, Will. I'll see you tomorrow."

I started to run home. That box must mean something! Something might be inside there, like a picture of Father or their wedding or something…

But what can I use to open it? I can't just break it! Who knows if even the box was special? Another flashback ran through my mind.

_I was unpacking everything I owned, from clothes to dolls to picture frames. Grandma bought a large shelf, a new shelf for the Shelf of Memories. Instead of this being in the living room for everyone to see, Grandma said it could be in my room. Correction: _Had_ to be in my room. I just thought it would be too much for her to handle when she said this. _

_But surprisingly, she pleaded for the picture of Mother on horseback, as if it meant something. I gave it to her, even though I was disappointed. I loved that picture too. Grandma smiled at me, and then asked if she could have one picture of me when I was a baby. I agreed to that; it didn't matter to me. She smiled another warm smile. She was about to leave, but stopped at my door to stare at the picture of Mother. "Oh, Jack. Look what you did to my daughter," I heard her whisper. Jack? That's my father! What does Grandma mean?_

_I thought for a second as Grandma left and ordered the maid to start dinner. She was the new maid, named Rachel. She was joyful and warm and always loved to work for people. That's why she agreed to work at our household, since there was one more person now. _

_Rachel's cooking was good, but I could never forget Mother's. Hers was just the best. _

_Anyway, I was thinking of what Grandma said. Was Father alive when I was a baby? But Mother would never lie to me. So now I was confused. I pushed the thought away and decided to study more of Mother's locket. I examined it, and I noticed that a key was also on the chain. _A key? For what?_ I asked myself. Mother gave me a locket with my initial, E, on it. But it didn't have a key. _

_I sighed. My brain hurt from confusion and too much thinking. I put Mother's locket back in the music box and put it on the new Shelf of Memories. So many memories, only one person to enjoy them now. _

_Mother's soul may still be alive, but I am the only living person to enjoy and embrace the memories I had with her. Grandma rarely went to our house, and I mostly only went there to visit or stay over for one night. _

_It was mostly me and Mother on the road or going to visit Santa Monica. Mother always seemed to get misty-eyed went she stared at the pier. I never knew why, but ever since her death I think everything is because of my father. How long did she know him? One day or five years? She never told me anything besides his personality, and now I'm begging for answers I couldn't get. I'm sure Grandma knows nothing about them. No wedding pictures, no nothing of him. He's just gone from my life; I have no memory of him. _

_I put up picture frame after picture frame until I finally got to the mystery box. An engraving of a rose was on the front. _Arose, _I thought. _Mother's name is Rose. _I tried to open the box but failed. It was locked tight. The box was beautiful with engravings of flowers on it and painted to a perfect tint. I just kept wondering what could be inside. I didn't want Grandma to find it, so I slid it under the bed to think of how to open it later. It was too valuable to break open, that's for sure._

_All that was left was Mother's box of newspapers. She never knew some of them were gone. I sniffled again, feeling tears come to my eyes. I sucked them in and pushed the box under the bed. I decided to draw the scenery outdoors, so I picked up my sketchpad and walked outside._

I finally reached the house after a few minutes of running. I ran inside and up the stairs. I heard Rachel making an after-school snack in the kitchen, but the last thing I could think of was food. I slammed the door behind me and pulled all of Mother's possessions out from under my bed. The beautiful rose box, the bag of ripped newspaper, and the box of other newspapers.

_I need more than this to figure out about Father, _I thought.

I ran to my closet and began to pull down boxes of Mother's clothing. It might be worthless, but there had to be one dress that gave away something. I looked through many of her dresses, all which were finely washed and in good condition. I went through many silks and satins until I found under a huge pile of clothing a pale blue dress with a worn pink ribbon around the waist. From it's condition, it must have been drenched in water and then wrinkled to dry. Why would Mother keep such a dress in this bad of a condition? It smelled like salt water, so I put it down and knew that this had some clue in it.

The pale blue dress was completely ruined, and I knew that before it had been a beautiful dress.

At that moment, an idea popped in my head. What if there's some clue in my old house? I folded up the dress and slid it under the bed with the other things and ran out the door before Rachel could ask me if I wanted my after-school snack.

My blue, knee-length dress bounced behind me as I ran to Mother's old house. A few months after her death, the community turned the house into a museum. It held Mother's portraits, biographies, and costumes for all the films she acted in.

I slowed down as I saw the house come into view. The whole place was kept in good shape, even the rose garden Mother planted years back.

My home was how I remembered it. Until I entered the door, that is. Everything was rearranged. A large painting of Mother stood in the foyer with a long biography of her life. Other people stared at it in awe. They never saw someone with such beauty. Sometimes those people would catch a glimpse of me and start pointing and whispering. Everyone does when they see the resemblance I had with my mother. The whole house had signs everywhere explaining what the room was and what Rose Dawson used it for. Some of Mother's films were organized on the shelf that held the small projector. Same old living room.

The kitchen was the same too, but when you came upstairs everything changed. My bed was the only thing left in my room. The small sign explained that this was originally Rose Dawson's daughter, Emily Rose Dawson's, room. The rest of the space was taken up with gowns and signs about four of Mother's films. They placed my favorites in there, which I was happy with.

Mother's room was always the most popular. Everything was kept in place, and when I entered there was a tour guide talking to a group of people about my mother.

Some turned and stared, but otherwise I wasn't shy. I searched my mother's closet, hoping the tour guide wouldn't ask any questions. I began to press against the walls, hoping there was a secret passage or something.

Sadly, nothing was there. I guessed everything was cleared out and put in my new room at Grandma's house. I sighed and got up, but I noticed a glimpse of something shiny in the corner of my eye. It was a little dark, but there was enough afternoon sunshine for me to notice a ring on the floor of the closet. I gasped and picked it up. It was a beautiful ring, with engravings of flowers. A large red rose took up the center. This must have been Mother's, but how come she never wore it? It was extremely beautiful.

I held the ring to the light and noticed some words engraved on it. _Never let go._

Never let go! That's what Mother told me that Father said before he died. This must have been an engagement ring or some trinket from Father! I stuffed the ring in my pocket and, noticing that some people were staring, started to casually read the sign that explained about my mother's room. A painting of Mother on her bed while reading a book was displayed. Such a beautiful painting. The thing is, I was no where to be found. I decided that Mother would want me in some of this display or somewhere in the museum, so I went to complain at the tour guide. Not just that, but I wanted the group of people to not think of me as a crazy girl who was pushing the walls inside a closet that wasn't even hers.

I cleared my throat. The tour guide got the idea and asked me, "Do you have a question, miss?"

I looked at the crowd of people who seemed angry that I interrupted their tour. I finally looked back at the tour guide and said, "I was just wondering, why is Rose Dawson's daughter not mentioned in any of these exhibits except for one?"

The tour guide coughed and then said, "Well, this may be Mrs. Dawson's household, but we know real little about her daughter."

"What about all the interviews in the 'paper? Clearly, you read that Rose Dawson mentioned her daughter at least once or more in them."

The tour guide rolled his eyes and said, "Well, miss, this is none of your business. Run along now."

I stood grounded. "But, sir, you clearly have no idea how much Rose Dawson loved her daughter. Emily Rose Dawson, born January 3rd, 1913, was Rose Dawson's inspiration. Growing up without a father for Emily, she gave her the affection of two parents. Even though she may be stubborn sometimes…"

I trailed off and knew that now wasn't the time to talk about the downside of growing up with only a mother.

I continued. "Anyway, her mother loved her so much she would do anything for her. Even if it involved sacrificing herself."

The tour guide remained speechless and started asking me questions, as if I was an expert.

"Do you know who the father is? Do you know if it was a natural death or a sacrifice for her daughter?" the man asked me.

I shook my head at both. I might know the answer for the first one, but I decided now wasn't a good time. I rarely knew him, as it was.

The man, disappointed, sighed but then looked at me with a suspicious eye. "Miss, how do you know all this?"

I comfortably said, "Because I am Emily Rose Dawson. Don't you see the resemblance?" I had to smile at his face of shock. Not only that, but I looked so much like her and he didn't even sense it.

The man was speechless, and so I left the room. But a little girl around seven or eight tugged on my skirt and held out a blank notepad.

"Uh…," I mumbled, not sure if this girl was a fan of me or thought I was my mother. But I signed it for her anyway, and by the look on her face she seemed happy. Such a cute little kid.

I walked through the entrance of Grandma's house and found a plate of cookies sitting on the bed in my room. I took one and bit down hard. I thought I was getting a hot lead, but now it just turned cold. The only thing I could do was examine the dress, paste the newspaper back together, and try to open that box. The ring I wasn't sure what to do with, but I kept it in Mother's music box.

I pulled out the newspaper and started pasting it back together. It was really hard and took me hours, and by dinner I wasn't even halfway done.

After dinner, however, I decided to just try and open the engraved box. I held it to the light, turned it in all directions, examined the mechanics of the key hole until I finally realized that the key on Mother's necklace must mean something. My mind now burned with excitement as I pulled down the music box and took out the locket. I stuck the key attached to the necklace into the key hole and turned it.

_Click._

Oh my gosh, it worked! I slowly took out the key and opened the box. To my surprise, there were dozens of pictures inside. But the box seemed heavier than a bunch of photos. Even the wood wasn't that heavy.

I started pulling out the photos, picture by picture, examining them. Each and everyone of them had me in it. Mother was in each one, too. Some even just had me.

While I was taking out the last few photos, my hand touched something cold. I shivered and was as still as ice.

I finally unfroze and slowly pulled out the cold object I just touched. I gasped at what it was.

In my hand dangling right in front of me was a diamond-chained necklace with a sapphire blue heart-shaped pendant.

"_Le Coeur de la Mer!_" I gasped. The Heart of the Ocean.

A flashback rang through my head.

_It was the day after my birthday, and I just turned five. I was sitting on the kitchen chair while eating breakfast. Mother was doing the dishes, and I heard a thump on the front door. Mother and I looked up from what we were doing, startled. Then we stared each other down, Mother taking off her wet, rubber gloves. A smile appeared on her face._

"'_Paper's here!" I exclaimed. I jumped off my chair and ran to the door, _

_Mother behind me. I got the paper though, and started looking through it, looking for an article with Mother in it. I was running around while doing so, Mother chasing me to give it to her. I then got interested in another article and slowed down. Mother wondered what was wrong._

_I read about a priceless necklace known as "_Le Coeur de la Mer," _or "The Heart of the Ocean," that had been lost for almost six years. _

_I was just getting to names and the owner of the diamond when Mother ripped the paper out of my hands._

"_No, sweetie, don't read those boring articles. I don't want you to turn boring," Mother joked. But I knew she was serious about something._

"Mother had it this whole time?!"

I couldn't hide my shock. My whole body trembled. What does this mean? Was Mother a thief? She isn't, she couldn't. Could this priceless necklace lead to Father, or maybe his death? Could Father be the owner?

Father can't be. Like Mother said, he was a lower society. No way could he afford this diamond. I put the necklace back in the box with the photos and locked it. All I needed right now was some rest.

Tomorrow, since it's a weekend, I'll finish pasting the newspaper back together and read through the newspapers Mother kept. Hopefully I would learn something about my father.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

I laid awake that morning, thinking of my past. Not just mine, but Mother's. She was such a caring person, always helping people when they needed it. She cared about me as if I was her priority and _life_. What did I do that made this happen? I should have taken more concern of Mother's bruises. I shouldn't have just talked about it like it was nothing. For some reason I felt as if those bruises led to her death…

The other thing I'd thought about was the man who I talked to at Mother's funeral four years ago. It seemed like he was wealthy and knew Mother, but I certainly didn't know him. And it seemed like he knew my father—but I tried not to be too suspicious, remembering that Mother said that there was some man that could hurt me, or even kill me. But this man Mother kept talking about was glued in my mind.

_I have to find him,_ I thought. _I have to figure out the mystery of who I am, who my parents were._

I thought I knew her so well.

I got out of bed and pulled on the first dress I saw in my closet. My ankle-length, white and blue day dress looked perfect with my knee length socks and black leather shoes. I wore a ribbon in my hair, the same one as yesterday.

I skipped down the stairs when the phone started ringing. Rachel answered it as usual, but I was shocked to see her wave me over.

"It's for you. Some boy named William," she told me while handing the phone to me. I nodded and waited a second until I said anything.

"This is Emily speaking, how may I help you?" I let out in one pent-up breath.

"Hey, Emily, it's Will."

I rolled my eyes; he _must _have heard Rachel announce him. "Hi," I said, exasperated.

"I was just wondering if I could, you know, um…" His voice trailed off.

"Help me find out who my father is?" I suggested, though it wasn't really a suggestion because I knew what he wanted.

"Yeah. Yes, pretty much, yeah," he fumbled.

I thought it over. I did need some help to glue back the newspaper. There were so many pieces, I was sure I would get confused at some point. But with two people, one person could point out a mistake—and glue only half the shredded pieces.

"Sure. Why not?"

I heard a whispered "Yes!" until Will finally said, "Thanks. I'll see you in an hour?"

"Yes. An hour."

I hung up and ran upstairs. I had _got_ to start pasting that newspaper back together! It wasn't until now that I had a friend that I realized how important and urgent it was for me to find out whom my father was, dead or alive.

I calmed down once I was upstairs, but instead of gluing the newspaper I got ready for Will's visit. I pulled out all the evidence I had and waited, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the mother I had lost and the father I had never known.

…

An hour later, Will and I were slowly and carefully pasting the pieces back together, reminding me of the life I had but had shattered those four years ago. We took turns, one person gluing and the other watching for any mishaps. In about an hour, almost half of it was done.

But instead of skimming the page to see what we had, we kept gluing. We were so concentrated on our task and newspaper that was taking hours (I never knew my mother's strength and emotions!), we didn't notice the time. Near the evening we had three-fourths of it done.

Rachel called us down for dinner.

"We shouldn't read the article until we have the title," Will recommended, giving me a strange look that reminded me of compassion.

I agreed. Now that the answers I had been dying for for so long were about to be answered, I just wanted to postpone it. Maybe I liked my life how it was now; maybe I didn't want it to change, but I knew that I wanted to know who my parents really were more than anything.

He couldn't stay for dinner, so I was left on my own with my thoughts again. Grandma was working harder these days, so I ate with them, chewing over them like I was the chicken Rachel had so artfully and deliciously carved.

After I was finished eating almost an hour later, I rushed upstairs to finish the newspaper.

About halfway through, I gasped. The title only spelled _TITA_, but the picture was the back of a ship. I scanned the article, betraying the promise I had made myself, meanwhile my eyes flashing through it, not even catching the words except for one.

_Titanic._

My hand shot to my mouth as my eyebrows wrinkled in horror. Tears stung my eyes, and my small body began to shake. Not noticing the time, I dialed Will's number, silent teardrops dripping down my pale cheeks.

"Hello?" an exhausted Will answered.

"Will!" I cried, not realizing how emotionally wracking the knowledge had made me until that moment. "Oh my God, you won't believe this!"

"W-what is it?"

I took a shaky breath and explained my plight. "I was only halfway through finishing the newspaper when I noticed something. The title only spelled out T-I-T-A, but the picture of a back of a ship made everything clear."

"You don't mean—"

"Yes." I let out a pent-up sob, and I miserably wiped more sloppy tears away, my head falling in my hands. Though it was muffled, I was still able to make out my confession: "My mother was on the _Titanic_."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Will and I sat on my bed, staring at the now completed newspaper article.

"I can't believe this," I whispered in disbelief. I was still as dumbfounded and numb as the moment I had figured it out.

"I know," Will said. We were _both_ in shock.

"D-do you think they have a survivors list? I mean, a tragedy like this is infamous. They might still have it at the local printing press maybe..."

"Uh-huh."

Even with our lack of socialization, we still went to the local _New York Times _building anyway.

Bells chimed as we entered. The smell of coffee and cigarette smoke filled the air. I coughed tremendously. I didn't like the smell of either of the disgusting scents wafting through the room. I guessed it was because my grandmother didn't like the smell of cigarette smoke and Mother didn't like coffee.

Anyway, Will and I made our way to the front desk. I cleared my throat, and the man looked up. He smiled when he saw us, as if he knew us.

"What do you need, young'uns?" he asked, still grinning. He pulled out a jar of lollipops and handed each of us one.

I shyly but courteously said, "Thank you." He nodded in reply.

I finally bundled up enough courage to take the situation seriously. "My friend and I are here looking for a newspaper published fourteen years ago. A newspaper titled _Titanic Disaster_."

The man's creepy grin faded. "Oh. _That_." He looked away, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes.

To change the subject, I decided to ask for that one newspaper Mother never let me read when I was younger.

"Uh, well, do you have one that was published nine years ago titled _Priceless Diamond Necklace Lost for Eternity_?"

The man's smile returned, just not as strong, and he said, "I'll be back in just a minute."

I thanked him and waited with Will.

"What was that for? We're here for the newspaper about the _Titanic_, not some priceless necklace!" Will hissed at me.

"My mother owns this so-called 'priceless necklace,' and I think that it has something to do with Father and her death," I pointed out. He rolled his eyes and said, "Well, can we at least get the newspaper about the _Titanic_?"

"Fine. But, by the way, it seems like a touchy subject for this man."

The man, whose name was Mr. Barry, gave us the newspaper about the Heart of the Ocean.

"Thank you, sir, but, if you don't mind, that is, can we still get that newspaper on the _Titanic_?" I nervously tapped my foot.

Mr. Barry frowned again but nodded reluctantly. After he left, I started reading the newspaper on the Heart of the Ocean.

"What does it say?" Will asked curiously.

I cleared my throat and began. "'Millionaire Caledon Hockley, son of the Pittsburgh Steel Tycoon, has lost the priceless Heart of the Ocean necklace after a terrible event that happened five years ago. He gave the necklace to his dearly loved fiancé, Rose DeWitt Bukater, who supposedly died on the maiden voyage of the _Titanic_…' "

I stopped and reread the first two sentences. My face paled.

"What's wrong?" Will asked me.

"My mother's maiden name was DeWitt Bukater. And she didn't die on the _Titanic_…" I trailed off.

Will was silent.

"That means…she lied."

I wanted to cry but couldn't. To think and believe that my own mother could be a liar made me sick. But I just wouldn't let the stinging tears come.

My emotions faded once Mr. Barry entered and handed us the paper on _Titanic_.

"Thank you, Mr. Barry," I said. He nodded, but this time his smile did not returned.

I hesitated if I should leave or not. There was one question that nagged at me in the back of my mind.

"Mr. Barry?" I began. He looked up. "Do you know if there was a Rose DeWitt Bukater on the _Titanic _survivor list?"

Mr. Barry didn't answer for a few seconds, but when he finally did, he said, "Dear girl, I looked through the survivors list a dozen of times. All of us are needy, but sometimes our needs are matched with fate."

Mr. Barry got up from his seat and left the room.

"I'm guessing that's a no?" Will chimed in, confused.

I didn't answer his question. Mr. Barry's answer kept repeating in my head.

…

_All of us are needy, but sometimes our needs are matched with fate…_

The response sent a shiver down my back. Does he know about my mother? He could have; I look so much like her. What Mr. Barry said was true.

I needed to know who my father was, but instead Mother died. But what he forgot to mention was that the reasons the fateful event happened were unknown.

I sighed, a painful headache thudding in my skull. All of this thinking had gotten me stressed. Mother's maiden name was Rose DeWitt Bukater. I knew that for sure. Father's last name was Dawson. So Mother was a Dawson, and so was I.

But why didn't she tell me she was to marry the famous millionaire Caledon Hockley? This just didn't match up. Mother should have told me that she was engaged before. For all I knew, _he_ could be my father.

I sat crossed-legged on the floor, stress and deep thought pasted on my face. Will sighed too, but I didn't notice.

"Would you stop sitting there and help me figure this out?" he told me, clearly irritated. We had a few things laid out: the Heart of the Ocean, Mother's old dress, the two newspapers, and, just in case it might hold something, Mother's locket and ring.

"I'm tired of this. We were so hot on the trail, and it just turned cold," I complained. Will just rolled his eyes.

"Don't give up. What we know for certain is that your mother must've been engaged to Caledon Hockley."

"But she never told me!"

"Then there's a reason why!"

I straightened my dress on my knees, defeated. "But Father doesn't come into this at all," I said.

"Who knows? He could have been on the _Titanic_, too."

A light bulb lit up on my head. "Will, you're a genius! If he was on the _Titanic_, then this explains everything!"

I lunged and grabbed for the _Titanic_ newspaper. Will looked at me as if I was going mad.

I scanned the _Titanic_ survivors' list. No Jack Dawson.

I scanned the _Titanic_ victims' list. No Jack Dawson.

"He's not in here!" I whined. "I thought I was on to something!"

Tension pumped into my head. All I wanted to do was fall asleep and restart my life. Father might have lived and I would have taken more concern for Mother. I lied down on the floor and shut my eyes as if I was dead.

"Emily, lying there won't do anything!" Will shouted. "Let's just clear our minds and piece everything together."

"Fine," I grumbled.

I got up and stared at the evidence we had. The salt water smell on the dress must mean that Mother had been on the _Titanic_, but I couldn't be sure because DeWitt Bukater and Dawson were messing me up.

_Why would Rose Dawson survive and Rose DeWitt Bukater perish? _It made no sense to me. If I wasn't so stressed, I probably would've figured it out sooner.

"Hm…," Will grumbled. "Emily, when were you born?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"This is my way of piecing together the pieces, so tell me!"

"December 3, 1913," I mumbled.

He scanned and examined the evidence, stared at the wall, and closed his eyes. After five more minutes of that, I shouted out, "Okay, smart one, what do you have?"

He nodded and said, "It seems like your mother was holding you when she was on the _Titanic_. If after that, then you were born premature…"

"Ugh! I don't care! So what if I was born premature? I'm fine!"

"You _do_ have some anger issues," Will pointed out. I slapped my forehead from frustration.

"We have to figure this out! I can't take this anymore. I need to know who I am."

We just sat there in silence until I got bored and arranged the dress with the Heart of the Ocean and stuff like that. I organized the evidence into nice and neat sections. Will sat there thinking, so I put Mother's locket on her folded dress, closed my eyes, and said a prayer.

When I finally opened my eyes, I thought I saw a flash of light bounce off my mirror. I gasped, but noticed that nothing was there, so I just pushed it out of my mind.

Will now stared at the ceiling while lying on my bed, so I decided to try the Heart of the Ocean on. It was cold and heavy on my neck.

A diamond chain with a diamond pendant? It was a woman's dream!

I was about to ask Will if he was done thinking when I thought I saw Mother in the mirror. I was still with fear; I didn't move.

I stared at my reflection—then Mother's.

I wanted to scream but I couldn't. I saw Mother right in the mirror instead of me. That's when I realized it wasn't a reflection but something more like watching a nickelodeon. I sat still and tried to listen to what was happening through the looking glass.

I saw Mother in her nightgown, listening to a music box while staring into the mirror of a vanity. She put down a silver hand mirror, one with many exquisite engravings. There was a knock on the door, and a man with black, sleek hair walked in.

I gasped in surprise. He was the same man I saw at Mother's funeral four years ago!

Mother, unlike herself, just sat there and studied the man through her vanity. He was holding a black velvet box.

"I know you've been melancholy, and I don't pretend to know why," the man said. He held out the soft box. "I intended to save this until the engagement gala next week, but I thought tonight. Perhaps a reminder of my feelings for you," the man continued. I think I started gagging.

Mother took the box the man held out for her and opened it. I gasped at the sight.

"My God!" Mother exclaimed. Inside was _le Coeur de la Mer_, the Heart of the Ocean. A beautiful, heart-shaped pendant on a diamond chain, just like the one I was wearing now.

"Is it a—"

"Diamond? Yes. Fifty-six carats to be exact."

I think my eyes were burning at his sight.

The man, whose name was Cal and happened to be Hockley, placed the necklace around Mother's neck. She stroked it like it was the most awful piece of jewelry she ever owned.

Mother stared at the necklace in the mirror while Cal stared at her and the necklace.

"It was once worn by King Louis the Sixteenth. They called it _Le Coeur de la Mer_, the—"

"The Heart of the Ocean," Mother said, interrupting him.

"Yes," Cal mumbled tenderly.

Silence. Then, "It's overwhelming." Mother had finally spoken. Cal just stared at her and the necklace again in the mirror.

"It's for royalty. And we are royalty, Rose," Cal replied. He hesitated to add something, but then said, "You know, there's nothing I couldn't give you. There's nothing I'd deny you if you wouldn't deny me…"

I couldn't help but notice how unhappy my mother looked.

"Open your heart to me, Rose," he finally finished. But he was wrong. He _had_ to be wrong. Mother never opened her heart to him. She had to fall for someone else, like Jack Dawson, my father.

The image began to fade. I was left with a mind full of questions. I pulled the Heart of the Ocean off of my neck, almost breaking the chain. I just remembered that Will was there and turned around quickly.

Will's face was pale and he was still staring at the mirror as if he saw a ghost.

"Did you—" he began. He was trembling.

"Yes, I saw it."

I looked down at the Heart of the Ocean.

"It happened when I put this on," I told him. He nodded his head and started laughing nervously.

"Good. I'm not the only one," he said, ignoring my last remark.

We were both dumbfounded by the event that just happened. It's not like every day you see your mother through a mirror, not even noticing you're there. Not that my mother was old, but she looked…younger, in some way. As if this happened many years ago.

"I should…get going," Will said, still pale from the ordeal.

"Good night."

"Same to you."

He dashed out of the house like a tornado. He must have been really shaken by that day's events. Not only did my mother survive the _Titanic_, but she had a relationship with someone before my father.

I got into my silk nightgown and stared at the ceiling as I laid in my bed. The Heart of the Ocean was clasped firmly in my hand.

"Why didn't you tell me, Mother? Why didn't you just tell me the story?"

Tears filled my eyes, both of anger and disappointment. She could have told me more about this man and the Heart of the Ocean. She should and probably never will tell me the story of Father, even when I die and I talk to her soul as she talks to mine.

_Why did she leave me?_

I started to close my eyes as I whispered a familiar song, one that I would cherish and remember forever.

"Come Josephine in my flying machine and it's up she goes…up she goes…"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**April 12,1912**

_Stars flew around me, and a cool breeze blew through my hair. I never felt so free, so alive. I thought I heard a familiar voice exclaim, "I'm flying!" and then a person's name, but the words just blended together, incoherent, and faded. Then I heard the ocean slapping gently and calmly against…a ship. It rocked slightly, and the same voice exclaimed, "Jack!" _

I woke with a start, hitting my head on something hard above me. Either I grew or something was hanging low from my ceiling. But neither of those things were right. I heard water slapping against metal, and I thought I felt my bed rock slightly as if the floor was moving around. But it wasn't just _my_ bed, it was a large metal bunk bed with a person sleeping on the top. I couldn't recognize who it was, for he or she was facing the wall.

My heart beat against my chest. This was not my room. Another bunk bed laid a few feet across from mine, with two other people in it. Where was I?

I jumped out of the bed and ran to the nearest window. No, _porthole_. I gasped as it flew open and freezing air blew in my face. In front of me was nothing but a bright moonlight and…the ocean.

I tried to scream, but couldn't; my throat felt dry and raw. So I decided to pinch myself like it was a dream—_h__ard_. For this could all be just that: a dream. But this action made me wince and make a large gasp for air as my fingernails pinched my nerves. This also awoke the two people I hadn't noticed before from the bunk across from mine.

"Sophia, get back in bed! Do you know how much work we have to do today?" the person, who was obviously female from her voice, in the top bed spat at me.

"What?" My throat was still parched, so I grabbed for a glass of water sitting on a table, not caring if it was mine or someone else's. After taking a huge gulped, I cleared my throat. "My name isn't Sophia. It's Emily. Emily Rose Dawson."

The girl in the bottom bunk snickered.

"Don't be such a _rat_, Iris! The poor girl's been through a lot! Not only that, but she was knocked out at Ben's party and then knocked out _again_ from the medicine the ship's doctor gave her to lower the effects of seasickness. The man warned us that she could be unconscious from fatigue, but she was so bad, I just let her have it. Poor Sophie! It's not our fault we have to live with Uncle Jack and Fabrizio…," the former girl said.

The latter, named Iris', laughter slowly faded away like the darkness in the sky, which slowly transformed to a bright orange. It was still too dark to see much of their faces, though, and the it was still dim outside.

"Sister, that illness really took you!" Iris laughed at me. "Not only did you forget most of your childhood, but now your name! Come on, Violet, this is funny!"

The girl named Violet rolled her eyes. "Iris, this is no laughing matter! The poor thing… I wish she was my twin, not you!"

"Be quiet or you'll wake up Uncle Jack and Fabrizio next door!"

I stood there, looking at the two twins. I could finally see their faces, and they both had the same ice-blue eyes. But what made them different was their hair: Iris had the most beautiful brown curls I've ever seen, and Violet's hair was silky brown and flat.

"Besides, Uncle Fabrizio's cute," Iris giggled.

"Just because he's not related, doesn't mean you treat him as if he's your boyfriend!" Violet hissed. Iris chuckled harder at the last comment. Violet finally turned at me, a sad and annoyed look in her eyes. "Listen, Soph, if you don't remember your name, then I'll tell you. You are Sophia Dawson. No middle name, just like our parents wanted. Got it?"

"No middle name? Why?" I squeaked out. I was scared to ask the big questions, like where I was or who they were, so I instead blurted out the pathetic ones.

"Mom never thought it was necessary. As long as she could tell us apart, she was fine."

Even their moods were opposite at different times, because when Violet let out a small giggle, Iris stopped laughing. Then Iris began to pout. "Why can't our lives be easier? Now we have to live with Uncle Jack and travel across America… That's no fun. One day I'll break a nail, you know!"

Violet rolled her eyes, and for the first time since I knew them for thirty minutes, they both had the same attitude: bored and searching for fun.

"Think of the bright side, Iris. Traveling moving pictures actress!" Violet said to put her sister in a better temper. As soon as she said that, Iris's blue eyes turned almost invisible as black swallowed it up, and I thought I saw tears of joy and longing in them.

"Moving pictures actress… I could be on the next hit nickelodeon!" she exclaimed dreamily.

With Violet indifferent and Iris in a fantasy, I knew now was the time to ask _the _questions.

"_Where are we? Who are Uncle Jack and Fabrizio? What do you mean my name is Sophia? _My _mother cared about me so much, even middle names counted…"_

But all that came out was, "Eep."

Violet climbed down the small ladder and landed with a loud thump on the floor. Unlike her sister, Iris gently got out of bed with manners, as if she was in first class and not, as I could guess, third.

Violet made a loud whistling sound between her fingers, which made someone knock their head on the top bunk next door. A loud, heavily accented "Ow!" escaped through the walls.

"Uncle Jack and Fabrizio! Time to get up! We almost missed breakfast _again_!" Violet yelled while knocking on the opposing wall.

"We're up, we're up!" another man yelled in an identifiable American accent; he definitely wasn't foreign like the other man.

Violet turned and gave me a sweet smile. "Now out of that old ragged nightgown and into our dresses and aprons!" she squealed, and Iris joined her in her fest. First they were opposite, now they were completely the same. Then Violet cleared her throat and became more serious.

"I mean it! After breakfast we have two morning appointments with the other seamstresses… One for a wedding dress that needs its train and hems finished, and another for an evening gown that was torn."

"On it, boss!" Iris exclaimed while doing a clumsy salute. She almost tipped over, that's how quick and unprofessional it was.

As Iris and Violet started moving boisterously across the room, as if they ran on steam, they both hummed the same tune harmonically without noticing. I stood there as if I had no brain, and stared at the unfamiliar atmosphere.

Someone tugged on the bottom of my nightgown, and I looked down to see who it was. A small girl around five or six with a mess of black curls stared up at me. I didn't know what she was asking for.

"The thread. You're standing on it," Violet pointed out when she caught sight of my questionable alarm. I moved my foot, and no doubt there was a long piece of string that led to a pile of it in the corner.

"Why do we need this? All of my clothes are in good shape," I said, dumfounded.

With a sigh, Violet explained, "What we have now is what we can afford. If we tear something, all we can do is sew it back up. We can't afford even one dress—"

"Unless me and you share! We're twins so we wear the same size!" Iris interrupted—which wasn't necessarily true, if she took in fraternal and, to be frank, all twins weren't exactly the same, even if they were identical.

Violet didn't answer, but by the look on her face she knew that she would never step into Iris's clothing.

I stepped over the thread I was standing on and the small girl lunged for it. She seemed so gentle before…

Still comprehending the situation, I made an _uh_ sound, until my eyes landed on a suitcase at the foot of my bed. It was made of old, torn brown leather and the handle was taped up. Somehow I knew this was mine.

I opened it to find a medium-blue dress with white trims around the sleeves and hems (like something you'll find a maid wearing) with a white apron to the side. This must be the ensemble Violet was talking about, so I took them both out and started changing into them. The fabric was soft but a little tight; I didn't think I ever felt so stiff, except for the corset Grandma bought me once and made me wear to my middle school graduation. Mother was so upset, as if the corset reminded her of something.

Orsome_one._

Iris and Violet were already done, both putting their hair up in neat buns, one silky and neat, another a burst of brown curls.

Was I the only one with auburn hair? I ran to the mirror and grasped my head in horror when I saw it: My auburn curls were replaced with dark brown ones, much darker than the twins. I must have begun whimpering, because Violet took me in a hug.

"Everything's all right, Sophie. We've got each other and this ship of dreams!" she said comfortably. I actually believed her, the girl I met an hour ago. But somehow I felt I knew her my whole life, but she resembled no one I knew in my...what, past life? She definitely didn't look like Mother, or anyone on my mother's side of the family. And, of course, I knew nothing of my father, so I couldn't answer that.

The little girl with the mess of black curls was the only one who didn't have her hair in a bun. She didn't wear an apron, so whatever Violet, Iris, and I were going to do, she wasn't coming with us.

A knock came on the door and Iris pulled it open rapidly. There stood a man with mesmerizing blue eyes, overgrown dirty-blond hair, and a white-toothed smile.

"Uncle Jack! Good morning!" Iris exclaimed cheerfully.

"Good morning, Iris. I just came to pick up Cora," this man, who I was pretty sure was named this Uncle Jack character, said. Cora must be the small girl with the black curls.

He saw me, and those eyes looked deeply familiar. Like a girl I knew…

"Sophie's up!" he said. "I thought she would never be awake when she was knocked out yesterday. I told you girls we shouldn't have went to Ben's farewell party _or_ given her those pills."

Somehow, too, I knew Ben was Violet's boyfriend.

"Uncle Jack, please. The least I could do was give him a proper goodbye. A party is much better than just saying farewell," Violet said grudgingly.

"And much more heartbreaking than just giving him a hug."

"Touché."

I blocked out their voices and looked at my surroundings. Two bunk beds, a small wardrobe, a sink and cabinet… and four lifebelts with TITANIC printed on them.

I stopped breathing. Either my heart stopped or it beat out of my chest. I thought I saw stars.

"Sophie? Are you okay?" Uncle Jack said. My face must have been more than just pale. He ran to my side, and that's all I saw before everything went black.

…

I woke with a headache on a cold, wooden floor.

"Look who's up!" I heard someone (I think it was Iris) exclaim as I groaned in pain.

"Aw, the poor thing. Leave her alone, Iris!"

That's when I noticed the curly-headed girl staring down at me—which made me jump and knock our heads together.

"Ow, Soph! I didn't mean to scare you!" Iris groaned while rubbing her head in agony.

I looked around the bright room with an amazing ocean view that let in the sun. A dress stood on a headless and armless mannequin. If it was legless I had no clue.

The dress was red that was too open at the chest for my taste. Beautiful black prints on an odd, scratchy fabric covered the red silk. The black print had small beads at the bottom that touched the floor. If you were being chased by cops, they would certainly get to you first. How can a person walk in that thing if all they do is trip and trip again and again?

"Help me, Iris. This is due at noon, and we need to finish this tear. The poor young woman's mother had a fit yelling at the older seamstresses about how poor the stewards treat people's luggage. She believes that's what made it, but the young woman who is to wear this dress tonight told me a secret: that she tore it herself. For whatever reason, she did not say."

Iris nodded at Violet's explanation. "Poor young miss. Now she has to marry that money-loving man, too. I would just throw myself off the ship!" Iris said while flinging her arms in the air, demonstrating what she would look like if she _did _jump.

"Yes, and thanks for proposing that detail to the young woman. I saw her pondering the rest of the time," Violet said dryly.

"I doubt she would. The water is practically freezing! If it wasn't for the salt, we could go ice skating on the Atlantic!" Iris twirled with her arms out, representing another clumsy act.

They started to bicker while they worked on the long, endless tear in the black print. Now was the time to collect my thoughts.

My name was Sophia Dawson.

We're on a ship.

We're sailing across the Atlantic.

I have dark brown curls.

And I'm back in 1912.

Just one more thing I needed to know…

"How old am I?" I asked Violet specifically.

She frowned at me. "Do you seriously not remember anything? You're twelve."

"No. I'm fourteen, and my name is Emily!" Violet ignored me.

"That medicine made her crazy," Iris whispered to her exasperated sister.

"Like a case of mercury," Violet added.

…

That afternoon, after leaving the finished dress with another seamstress to return it to its owner, we headed to the poop deck to be with Uncle Jack. When we got out there, I wished I had my sketchbook. There was so much activity to draw…

"Do you guys know where my sketchbook is?" I asked the two twins, who stared at each other with a guilty expression pasted on.

"We're sorry, Sophie, but that was burned with the fire," Violet sighed.

"What fire?"

"The one that killed Mom, Dad, and our real aunt and uncle. Jack is actually our cousin, but since he's twenty, we call him that."

"And Fabrizio is his friend that is so close to us we also call him an uncle," Iris added while Violet rolled her eyes.

I saw the man I remembered as Uncle Jack and the little girl Cora in the distance. She was playing with another young girl with blond hair put in two braids, and Uncle Jack was chatting and laughing while drawing something on a sketchpad.

When I reached him, I studied him curiously. He caught my eye, and before I knew it I blurted out, "Papa!"

He stared at me in confusion as a man with a heavy Italian accent chortled.

"See, Jack? That medicine hit her hard!" the man joked.

I didn't let my gaze off of Uncle Jack. He finally whispered something I didn't hear and asked me, "What?"

"I'm Emily. Emily Rose Dawson. I don't know how I got here, but I just want my old life back!" I started panicking as hyperventilation took over. "My father will die on this voyage… His last name is Dawson, my mother's last name is DeWitt Bukater…" That's all I managed to get out. Tiny, short exhales of unexplainable words.

Violet gasped at the mentioned names.

"But Dawson is our last name! And DeWitt Bukater is the young lady who tore her own dress, who has to marry that old steel tycoon!" Iris gasped.

"Caledon Hockley," I whispered under my breath, and Iris's face grew pale.

"Yes," she spoke.

The whole time Uncle Jack was locked on a gaze somewhere on the upper decks. I turned to see who he was looking at.

"Mother!" I practically yelled. That didn't stop Uncle Jack from staring, but it did make Violet and Iris perk up.

"She's too young," Violet explained. "Only seventeen."

"And marrying thirty," I added. They both nodded.

"Wow, Sophie, how did you know that? We never told you anything!" Iris exclaimed in awe.

"That's what I'm trying to explain! I'm not from here!" My voice whimpered at a high note; I thought I might start crying. "This isn't even my hair!"

And that did it. I started sobbing, releasing tears for home and Mother and even the hair growing out of my head.

Violet patted my back while Iris gave me a hug. Uncle Jack still didn't unlock his stare.

_Love at first sight, _I thought. _That's how tragedy always starts._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Mother's young image kept popping up in my mind, even as Violet, Iris, and I waited for the young woman to bring in her wedding dress. There was something different in her eyes… Something she didn't have before. I knew that for the rest of this voyage I would follow Uncle Jack around. But I needed a better, stealthier plan. _What if I got caught…_

My thoughts were stored in my brain as I heard the sound of a familiar voice saying, the first half of the sentence cut off, "…but this isn't fair!"

Another voice much older told the young woman simply replied, "We're women. Nothing is ever fair."

The young lady entered wearing a stunning dress with many bright colors that brought out her creamy white skin and dark auburn curls that were pulled up in a bun. A sash with a yellow rose flower hung around her waist. Her eyes were a stunning emerald green that started to turn blue from her emotions. We were both staring at each other, as if we knew each other…but we didn't. Not yet, that is.

"Miss," Violet was saying to the older woman. "Please settle down! We will take care of this without your help. All we need is Miss DeWitt Bukater."

"Mrs. _Hockley_," the older woman corrected. _Grandma_.

I looked back at my young mother. She studied me with fascination.

"Why do you look so much like—"

"Like you?" I finished her question.

"Yes…"

"I-I'm sorry. It's not safe to say…," I stuttered.

She nodded her head. "Very well, then." Then she faked a smile. "Coincidence, I'm sure."

I turned my gaze to my younger grandmother leaving in an outrage, Iris letting out a pent-up breath.

"Phew. I thought she'd never leave!" Violet exclaimed, pretending to wipe a dollop of nonexistent sweat from her forehead.

Meanwhile, Mother walked to the center of the room with a full-length mirror in front of her. Now I saw why Father had fallen in love with her. She had this whole attitude that reminded me of a flame.

Iris giggled as her and Mother talked and Violet and I worked on the wedding train.

"So he proposed and you almost thought of screaming?" Iris giggled.

"Yes. Worst day of my life when I _had_ to say yes…"

I finally dropped my needle and said, "I can't do this." Mother's blue eyes looked down at me, curious. "I can't let you marry Cal!" I said.

"I know it's not fair, but…," Mother trailed off.

"But Mother—"

I stopped and slapped my hand over my mouth, closing my eyes exasperatingly. All of this was too confusing! Mother, Rose, Father, Jack? What difference could it make?

The difference was that I don't _exist_. Not yet.

"What?" Mother asked, confused.

"I mean, Miss. I promise you that you will find true love on this ship, and that true love would give you the strength to break the engagement."

"What are you, Sophie, a psychic now?" Iris spat, barking out a laugh. But Mother didn't acknowledge Iris's comment, just kept staring at me with her unreadable eyes.

That's when I reassured her and said, "Somebody will. I promise."

For a moment, I thought I saw a star of hope in her eyes. But if I did, it quickly faded.

…

That night I followed Uncle Jack at ten o'clock to the poop deck, where he lit a cigarette and stared at the stars as he laid on the bench.

Everything seemed dreadfully peaceful—until a few minutes passed.

Crying. That's all I heard. Heels against wood, sobs drowning out the clacking sound. _Oh no._

A young woman wearing the same dress Violet and Iris fixed that morning ran by, startling Uncle Jack and making him get up and follow her.

_Rose._

What was she doing? I saw her run off to the far back end of the ship, but she disappeared from sight. I silently followed Uncle Jack to where he found Mother threatening to throw herself off the ship. Iris should have _never_ made that suggestion.

Mother's red curls flew everywhere, and tears stained her cheeks with mascara. Uncle Jack must have thought that this was the perfect time to startle her, save her, and, eventually, win her, for he said, "Don't do it."

This alarmed her all right, and she threw her head back, almost letting go of the railing.

"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" she cried desperately.

Uncle Jack was quiet, but he then took a step forward and said, "Take my hand. I'll pull you back in."

"No! Stay where you are. I mean it! I'll let go…"

"No you won't."

Rose looked at him strangely and, now annoyed but a little happy someone was trying to save her, said, "What do you mean, no I won't? Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me!"

But I knew that she wanted this man to know her. I just saw it, even when Father didn't.

"You would have done it already. Now come on, you don't want to do this. Take my hand," Father, or Uncle Jack, said calmly.

Rose—or Mother—wiped her tears from her eyes, almost falling as she did.

"You're distracting me. Go away." She didn't sound so annoyed before, but I now knew that she wanted to be alone to clear her mind and think.

"I can't. I'm too involved now. If you let go, then I'll just have to jump in there after you." Jack/Father started to take off his coat and untie his shoelaces.

"Don't be absurd," Rose now said, worried. "You'd be killed."

"I'm a good swimmer." Jack started with his first shoe after taking off his jacket.

"The fall alone would kill you."

"It would hurt. I'm not saying it wouldn't. To be honest, I'm a lot more concerned about that water being so cold."

Rose stopped breathing and stared into the distance, her hair flying everywhere, her face now pale from fear. While looking at Jack from the corner of her eye, she asked him, "How cold?"

"Freezing. Maybe a couple degrees over." Jack now started with his other shoe. "You, uh, ever been to Wisconsin?" he asked randomly.

Rose, now confused, said, "What?" in a exaggerated way.

"Well, they have some of the coldest winters around. I grew up there near Chippewa Falls. Once when I was a kid, my father and I went ice-fishing out on Lake Wissota. Ice-fishing is when—"

"I know what ice-fishing is!" Rose yelled, annoyed at this man.

"Sorry. You just seem like," Jack said while indicating her, "an indoor girl. Anyway, I fell through some thin ice and I'm telling ya, water that cold, like right down there, it hits you like a thousand knives stabbing you all over your body…"

A pause. Mother looked like she might collapse or faint from what she was hearing.

"You can't breathe."

Silence.

"You can't think."

Silence.

"At least not about anything but the pain." He stopped to see if he had convinced her. Not completely, but really close.

"Which is why I'm not looking forward to jumping in there after you. But like I said, I don't have a choice. I guess I'm kind of hoping you'll come back over and, uh, get me off the hook here."

Rose hadn't spoke during the whole speech, and she now just stared at the ocean in thought. I'm sure she was thinking of that little girl who looked so much like her that said she'll find love on this voyage. I'm a hundred percent sure of it.

Rose's response to all this: "You're crazy."

Jack smiled. "That's what they all say." He came closer to her and finished his speech by saying, "But with all due respect, miss, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship here."

Rose didn't respond at first, so Jack had to go through the trouble by saying, "Come on, now. Give me your hand."

His hand now leaned out to her reach, and she took it, slowly turning to start climbing over.

They locked eyes long enough for Father to say, "Phew. Jack Dawson."

"Rose DeWitt Bukater."

"I'm going to have you write that one down."

Father smiled and Mother gave a little laugh at the joke, though it was so out of character with her smeared mascara and tear-stained cheeks it was almost comedic.

That's all I could take. I darted down the stairs and across the freezing deck, not even looking back when I heard my mother's screams as she slipped. But I had a feeling that Jack would pull her over. There's no stopping it now. Rose met Jack and now he's going to die…unless I could stop it.


End file.
